


Take Me With You (The Second Chance Remix)

by dracofiend



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal tracks down Kate's killer. Peter tracks down Neal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me With You (The Second Chance Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [lovefanfiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefanfiction/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You Make It Sound Like Chance](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/672) by afiawri. 



When Neal finds him he is sitting at his desk, the man who killed Kate. He's typing on his laptop, in a crisp gray suit and a dark navy tie, and he glances over reading glasses when his door opens with a politely inquiring _Mr. Williamson?_ It's completely anti-climatic, until Neal pulls the gun.

"Hi," Neal says pleasantly, pushing the door closed behind him. "You may or may not know me, though really, you should. But if you don't—I'm Neal Caffrey."

The man raises his level gaze from the gun to Neal's face. He doesn't say anything, but the stiffness of his body tells Neal he's quite alarmed.

"About a year ago," Neal continues, smiling, "you blew up a plane. You killed someone close to me." Neal feels his quick pulse quickening, his heart rising with blood. "Kate Moreau. You probably haven't heard that name, either." Neal's skin is alight, warm with the awareness of each molecule of air sitting upon him, around him, holding up his arm that is holding up the gun. It's a Kimber 1911, perfect for concealed carry and self-defense.

Under his clothes Neal is starting to sweat. But not, he thinks through the thick sound in his head, as much as the man in front of him. Neal's breath inside him pounds in heavy muffled beats but his heart is fluttering, winking in and out, quick and light as Kate's steps, soft and light as Kate's touch while lifting a wallet or Neal's hand, and Neal thinks of this as he curls his finger on the trigger, palm flat to the grip, thumb down and firm.

"Here's one you'll know," Neal says softly to the man's chest, where he won't miss. "What goes around comes around." Neal smiles; he doesn't shake; his body is air, nothing, the weight of one pistol and one mission achieved—

Somehow he hears the frantic thudding from the hall. He forgot he'd been listening for it, which shouldn't have happened—then the door bursts open and it's Peter there.

"Neal, put it down," commands Peter in between deep breaths. Neal's lungs hammer; the heat of Peter's haste pours into the room. Neal hasn't blinked or looked over but he feels Peter's firearm, out and trained on him. "Put the gun down," Peter says.

Neal has always considered Peter's to be the human voice of authority. It made an impression on him the first time he heard it, but it wasn't until he got to know Peter that Neal was truly impressed, because when Peter says things, he actually means them.

"Neal," Peter says, more quietly. He's edging from Neal's peripheral vision into Neal's line of sight. "Neal, put it down."

Neal keeps his eyes and his 1911 pointed straight at Williamson. "He killed her," Neal says. "He set it all up—the plane, Kate, the deal with Fowler and the music box, the bomb, everything. He did it." Neal's voice doesn't break but it almost does, at the end, when saying it aloud suddenly makes it new and impossible to be true. _Kate's dead,_ crawls into his throat, feeling crooked, feeling like it never left.

"Then we'll prove it," Peter says, slowly, promising. "We'll prove it and we'll lock him up for the rest of his life, but first you need to put the gun down."

Neal shakes his head—there's stinging now in his chest, in the recesses behind his eyes. "I've looked—I can't find anything—there's no way to _prove_ any of it because he's had it cleaned up so well. Scrubbed down to the last detail—" Neal catches the twitch of the man's eyes to his laptop; his own stinging eyes dart to it. "—except for what's in there."

"Neal—"

"What's in there?" Neal demands, taking a step forward, forcing himself to ignore Peter's movement. "Tell me!"

"Neal—" Peter starts as Williamson opens his mouth to deny but Neal is striding forward in one step, two, until he's right across the desk and there's no way he'd miss if he fired a shot now. "Neal you put the gun d—"

"You said I could do this!" Neal roars back, staring into the face of the man who killed Kate. _Kate's dead_ and Neal has him after a year of unofficial investigation and pretending to be _fine, I'm fine, let's just get back to work_ and Peter had said _his sentence doesn't have to be dealt out by the government_ and this is Neal, dealing it out with unexpected fury and panic rolling up his veins in sickening waves. "You said I could! So let me or shoot me, Peter—your call!"

Neal waits a moment. He has no doubt Peter is thinking of pulling the trigger. He's hoping to God Peter won't.

Another second later, Neal hasn't been shot, and Peter's voice is low. "I thought you weren't a gun guy."

The sound of those words stabs at Neal, hard, out of left field, but Neal can't think about it now. "Tell me what you've got on Kate," he orders Williamson, "and I might settle for seeing you locked up." The gun is practically in Williamson's face.

"I don't know what you're—" Williamson starts, croaking but _alive_ which is too good for him so Neal swoops across the desk and takes a fistful of white collar, and maybe Neal shoves too hard because he's not used to this or maybe it's just the other man's fear, but Williamson chokes and gasps out, "All right! The computer—I've got…what you want is there…"

Neal doesn't let up. "Records? Records showing you were directly responsible for Kate's murder?"

The man nods, his eyes on the gun hovering near his face.

"Good," Neal says, and thrusts the pistol against the guilty man's neck.

"No!" Peter calls over the sound of Williamson sucking in air, "Don't do it!" Peter shouts while Neal leans in close with his chin above the pistol rack and his knuckle crooked at the trigger, pressing the end of the barrel into sagging flesh where it sinks in as easily as his almost-life with Kate.

"Bang," Neal whispers. "You're dead."

Then Peter's hands are on him, carrying him away.

The first time Peter arrested him, Neal went to a federal prison and waited more than three years before Peter came to visit. The second time Peter arrested him, Neal was sent to a local facility and he only had to wait a day. On the day Neal finally hunts down Kate's killer, Neal spends five hours alone in his detention center cell before he's taken to the visiting room, and Peter shows up.

"How're you holding up?" Peter asks, settling into a plastic chair. Neal leans forward on his elbows. He could ask Peter the same thing, because Peter looks tired.

"I can't say I'm crazy about this place," Neal nods at the regulation gray jumpsuit he's wearing, "but all right."

Peter nods, and looks at him. The silence draws out.

"So what happened with Williamson?" Neal finally asks. "You guys checked out his laptop, right?"

Peter rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah. We did."

"And?"

"And—he was telling the truth. There's not a lot, but it looks like there's enough evidence there to link him to the plane. And to Fowler. Williamson's in custody now, but they might be releasing him in the next day or two."

"What? How can they do that?" Neal's raised voice had drawn looks from the other detainees and visitors seated around them. He hunches his shoulders and shifts forward slightly, across the table. "The evidence from the laptop—"

Peter's shaking his head. "The evidence from the laptop might not be good—they're going to claim you were with me, you were acting under color of law, you were coercing a confession—"

"Bullshit!" Neal's hissing, anger flashing through his spine. "There is no way they can implicate you in this—you couldn't have known—I broke my radius—"

"I know, Neal, I know," Peter says, his fingers outstretched. "But the fact is, you had a man at gunpoint, and I didn't take you down."

"You did!"

"Not until you practically had that weapon down his throat—Neal, where'd you get it?"

Neal doesn't answer the question and instead argues, "But what if you couldn't? What if you didn't have a clear shot?"

Peter sighs. He looks down at his hands, resting on the table. "I would probably have to testify to that at some point." A long moment passes before he meets Neal's eyes again.

Neal's good with people, and he's gotten to know Peter pretty well—but the people Neal likes best are the ones who can surprise him. Peter did, after Neal punched cracks into Peter's glass office wall. Neal prepares himself for another surprise, one in which Peter decides this isn't a gray area; this isn't a rule Peter's willing to bend, not even if it's the only way to put Williamson away.

Peter's fingers tap the table. He lets out another sigh. "Look," he begins, and Neal has to interrupt before Peter says _no,_ because once Peter's said it, it will be too late. Neal tilts forward, puts his hands on Peter's wrists despite the black stenciled "No Touching" warnings spray-painted on all the walls.

"Peter, please," Neal pleads, holding Peter's wrists still. "He murdered her and without the evidence on that laptop he'll get off scot-free, and I just can't let that happen. I can't, Peter. What would you have done, if it had been Elizabeth—"

Peter jerks himself back sharply—a couple of guards have seen it and are heading their way, but Peter looks up with a tight smile and waves them off. He turns to Neal swiftly.

"Elizabeth would never have been in a situation like Kate's because Elizabeth knows better than to get involved with criminals," Peter says angrily.

The instant it's out of his mouth Neal can see he regrets it, but that stabbing pain is back, the one Neal gets in his side when something's off with him and Peter. It closes Neal's throat and hardens his words, when he can get them out.

"So it's Kate's fault she's dead," Neal says bluntly. "And Elizabeth never has anything to do with criminals. Like me." He keeps his eyes very wide open or else he'd squeeze them closed because he can't believe—he must not believe—that Peter would say this, or think it, or that anyone remotely resembling Peter would say or think such a thing. He must not.

"That's not what I meant," Peter murmurs, and from the periphery of his vision Neal sees his hands slip forward. They don't touch him, though, as Peter leans in, repeating in the same quiet tone, "That is not at all what I meant, Neal, I'm sorry. I really am. I wasn't thinking. I'm—I guess I'm just tired."

Neal's shoulders don't ease. "So am I."

Peter's chest heaves. "Yeah." He nods and casts his glance around the communal visiting room. "You didn't let me finish before. I was going to say—" Neal sees him frown before their gazes meet. He sees Peter clench his jaw; let it go.

"It was a lot easier when there was only one person in the world I would put everything on the line for," Peter says, in his matter-of-fact way. "Now there are two." He gives a slight shrug and looks directly at Neal. "It gets a little stressful, at times."

Neal blinks. He is—surprised. Peter's still looking at him, as if expecting some kind of response, which Neal agrees is warranted—so he says what's actually floating at the top of his mind.

"Elizabeth once told me that you were the best thing that's ever happened to me," he says. And if it emerges from his mouth quickly and a shade out of breath, as if he'd been running, it is only because he's wondering how the hell Peter does it, every time.

Peter lifts his eyebrows and huffs an incredulous laugh. "Is that so?"

Neal nods, his mouth matching Peter's eyebrows.

"Think she's right?" Peter asks, folding his arms.

Neal spreads his palms out on the table between them. "Not sure," he begins, then, catching Peter's look, he grins and finishes with, "but she's one of the smartest people I know."

"Good answer," Peter smiles. "I'll let her know you said so. Speaking of El," he says, looking at his watch, "I should probably get home…"

"Take me with you?"

Peter's pushing back his chair; he turns with a wry laugh. "Sorry pal, this is what you get when you aim a gun at a guy and you don't have a badge." He tucks the chair in. "Shouldn't be too long, though, because as we both know, whoever got you that pistol somehow forgot the ammunition."

Neal folds his hands and returns Peter's quirked mouth with a bright smile. It drops, though, when Peter pats the chair and continues, "So—I'm thinking it'll take a few months to talk the prosecutor out of bringing charges, maybe more, since you're more similar to a parolee from his perspective."

"What?" Neal stands up as Peter walks away. "Peter! I was thinking more like a week—two, tops—Peter?"

"See you tomorrow, Neal," Peter calls, holding up a hand in farewell. Neal watches him nod at the guards who let him out, watches him walk down the corridor out of view. Neal watches Peter and wonders, again, if it was pure chance that set Peter on his track years ago—a random distribution of case files across agents—or maybe Peter was covering for someone on vacation. Maybe the Caffrey file got shuffled from agent to agent until it hit Peter's desk.

Neal gets up when the guards come to lead him back to his cell. He goes with them, gets in, hears the lock clang behind him. Neal sits down on the pallet, thinking of tomorrow. He thinks Elizabeth was right.


End file.
